


Dial M for Mistletoe

by CaitN



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitN/pseuds/CaitN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murder during the holidays. Set shortly after Season 1, Episode 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dial M for Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BearHatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BearHatter/gifts).



> Beta by wanderingoutlaw. Any remaining mistakes are my fault.

November 30th

“It’s clear the mistletoe didn’t kill him,” Sherlock said, moving around the body, finger to his chin. “Though it’s a nice touch. Festive.”

He was referring to the sprig of mistletoe (real, not the plastic crap you find at all the big box stores) sticking halfway out of the victim’s mouth.

Captain Gregson consulted a spiral notepad. “Russell Holly, forty-two. An investment banker with Sloane and Morris. Housekeeper found him around 7 o’clock this morning. No sign of a break in so he probably knew the killer.”

“He either knew them or was expecting them. I mean, do you really ever know the plumber, the bicycle messenger, the cable repair man.”

“The plumber did it, huh?” Detective Bell scoffed. “Are you psychic now?”

Sherlock ignored him and looked at Gregson. “What happened to the other guy? Detective Abraham…Addison…” He snapped his fingers impatiently.

“Abreu,” Joan supplied.

He continued, already bored with the subject. “I suspect he was asphyxiated. There’s an almost imperceptible blue tinge around the lips. Probably petechial hemorrhaging as well.”

Sherlock bent down to lift one of the victim’s eyelids to verify his already-confirmed-in-his-own-head suspicions.

Unfortunately Watson bent down at the same time, having the same idea. They stopped just short of bumping heads and their eyes met.

Joan looked away first.

“Scared you’ll like it?” Sherlock teased, talking so softly only she could hear.

She stood back up, allowing him to continue his task, not dignifying his question with an answer.

As he attempted (and so far succeeded) in proving he was the smartest one in the room, she thought back on their first meeting.

 _Do you believe in love at first sight?_ he’d asked. Of course he’d been quoting lines from a soap opera, but for a split second, as she’d looked into his eyes, he’d had her. Hook, line and sinker.

December 7th

“I’m going out on a limb here and saying that he was stabbed in the back,” Sherlock said, a smirk tickling the corners of his mouth.

“No shit,” Detective Bell muttered. “What gave it away, the bloody knife sticking out of the victim’s back?”

Captain Gregson consulted his spiral notepad. “Holly Granger, thirty-seven, head chef at Chez Louis. When she didn't show up for work this evening, and wasn't answering her phone, the manager came to check on her.”

"She knew her killer.”

“And you know that how?” Bell scoffed.

“You don’t turn your back on a stranger. Especially not a single woman,” Joan answered.

Sherlock continued. “Knife is a Shun Blue butcher knife, six inches long. Probably from her own set.”

“So a crime of opportunity,” Gregson said.

“Or else the killer came here intending on killing her one way, and then changed his mind.”

Sherlock knelt down beside the victim and put his head on the floor, looking her in the eyes.

Joan caught herself staring at his rear, and quickly looked away.

“Ah ha,” he said, reaching to open the victim’s mouth and pull out a mangled green bunch of foliage.

He stood up, displaying his prize for all to see. “Fresh mistletoe.”

“So we have a serial killer?” Joan asked.

“Not quite,” Gregson answered. “Three murders constitutes a serial killer.” He sighed. “It also means that the F.B.I. gets involved.”

Sherlock caught Joan looking at the mistletoe. He passed behind her and whispered, “Want me to dangle it over your head?”

It would have been easy to say “yes” but they were at a crime scene, she was his sober companion, and he was definitely not her type.

Thankfully he didn't wait for an answer, continuing his examination of the crime scene.

December 13th 

Joan found him sitting in the television room, all the sets on of course, and him sitting in a chair, reading. That wasn’t unusual – Sherlock was the ultimate multi-tasker. What was unusual was that he didn't seem to sense her approach.

She took the rare opportunity to glance over his shoulder to see what held his attention. It looked like pages printed off the computer. She read a few paragraphs…

__

_“It’s gone.”_

_“No, no, we’re just in the wrong place.”_

_Myka looked at Pete like he’d sprouted a second head. “Oh that makes much more sense. We’ve only been gone two days but in that time we forgot the location of the Warehouse.”_

_The two agents stood in the middle of a field, golden grasses blowing around their feet as the most gorgeous sunrise peeked over the mountains in the distance. A beautiful South Dakota morning except for one thing – the Warehouse was nowhere in sight._

_“I’m checking the g.p.s.,” Pete said, walking back to the s.u.v._

_Myka took out the Farnsworth and tried to contact Artie again._

_No response._

_Same thing with Leena, Steve and Claudia._

_That wasn't good._

_Pete jogged back and scratched his neck as he looked around. “We’re in the right place.”_

_“Told you.”_

_“But how is that possible? The Warehouse, Claudia’s cute little car… they couldn't just disappear.”_

_“We’re talking about the Warehouse, Pete.”_

_He continued as if he hadn't heard her. "The angels took the warehouse!”_

_She ignored him. “It’s got to be an artifact.”_

_“Unless a rift opened up, like the one in Cardiff. That could suck in a whole building.”_

_“Pete, it’s not supernatural!” Myka shouted._

_“Oh, so artifacts are_ completely _normal.”_

_“At one time they were, but I guess you’re right, they could be considered supernatural.”_

_“So what kind of artifact should we look for?” He smacked himself in the head as if he’d just remembered something. “Oh right,” he said sarcastically, “Artie’s computer that searches for artifacts is in the Warehouse!”_

_“Just shut up for a minute!” Myka paced. “We can figure it out. What about Sterns’ upholstery brush? Could it have somehow wiped the Warehouse from existence?”_

_“Only works on people.”_

_“Right.”_

Losing interest, Joan stared at the back of Sherlock's neck. The hair was starting to curl just barely at the nape, and she caught a hint of jasmine and bergamot. His soap?

Sherlock startled her out of her reverie. “If you’re going to kiss me, just do it instead of breathing down my neck.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I was reading over your shoulder.”

“Did you come to watch telly perhaps? I've put on your favorite shows.”

Joan finally glanced at the six televisions in the room. They were showing: Teen Wolf, due South, Eureka, and others.

She sighed. It wouldn't do any good to tell him she didn't watch television anymore. “Captain Gregson called. There’s been another murder.”

He quickly tossed aside the papers. Standing up he grabbed her shoulders and gave her a loud kiss on the lips. “Best news I've had all week!”

He headed for the coat rack, leaving her in stunned silence.

THE END


End file.
